Chapter 109

Guardians of the Wood

As they trekked deeper into the wilderness, Rowan felt his senses come alive. He could smell the earthy scent of the forest, hear the crunch of fallen leaves underfoot, and feel the gentle breeze on his face. He watched as his father moved with a fluid grace, effortlessly navigating the terrain, and admired the way he seemed to be in perfect harmony with his surroundings.

Tanlor was lagging behind, but Rowan was trying to keep pace with their father as best he could.

“See those tracks in the mud?” Taran asked Rowan as he caught up. He looked at the footprints in the dirt that his father indicated.

“Deer?” Rowan replied.

“Great Elk,” his father corrected, “similar, yes, but notice the size? Far larger than a regular deer.”

“Is that good?” Rowan asked.

“See how the prints are spaced apart?” Taran asked and Rowan nodded. “That means it was running, not walking. And see how the edges are indistinct? That tells us it's fresh, probably within the last hour or so.”

“So it’s probably still close then.”

“Maybe,” Taran replied, “something was chasing it.” His father was beaming and Rowan felt his own spirits rise.

“What’s big enough to hunt a Great Elk?” Rowan asked, his youthful voice filled with wonder.

Tanlor had caught up, he panted and rested a hand against the trunk of a tree for support.

“We’ll let your brother catch his breath and I’ll show you both,” Taran revealed.

“You’re moving too fast,” Tanlor whined. At nearly eleven years, Tanlor was old enough now to start growing out his warrior’s cut. He had the blond locks optimistically tied back, but—unlike Rowan’s—the tail was too short yet to braid and stuck out the back of his head like a brush.

Rowan looked most like their father with his deep red hair and large build. Tanlor still had the skinny body of a youth. His face was flecked with dirt from tumbles he’d taken while trying to keep up with his father and brother.

“I know you're young and still learning,” Taran said, his voice stern, “but you need to push yourself harder. The beast we're tracking is fast. We can't afford to lag behind or we’ll loose it.”

“I’m doing my best, father, but I’ll try harder,” Tanlor stood up straight, resolve painted across his youthful face.

“I know you are, son. And I'm proud of you for that. But you need to dig deep and find that extra reserve of energy. Think of it as a challenge, a test even. You can do it, I know you can.”

“I won’t let you down,” Tanlor nodded but he was still panting between words.

Rowan felt frustrated, a knot of tension coiled in his gut. He had been looking forward to this trip, eager to prove himself as a skilled tracker and hunter, but his younger brother's slow pace was hindering their progress.

Whatever it was they hunted, it seemed to be very important to their father. Usually, any hunts they went on were only two or three days beyond their camp but for this creature they’d been in the woods for almost two weeks.

Rowan didn't express his disappointment in Tanlor out loud, knowing that his father would only scold him for being unkind to his brother. But in his mind, he couldn't help feeling frustrated with Tanlor’s lack of speed and agility.

“Are we hunting a white bear?” Rowan asked eagerly. The white bears were far larger and more dangerous than the black or browns. “Or maybe a Shadow Prowler?” Rowan had heard other hunters describe these sleek, black panther-like predators that were masters of stealth. They could blend into the shadows and move almost completely silently, making them deadly hunters. Whatever we’re hunting had to be large enough to take down a Great Elk.

“We’re not hunting it,” his father reprimanded.

“What are we doing tracking it then?” Rowan asked and Taran turned to him, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"My boy, there is more to the hunt than just the kill. It is about the journey, the challenge, and the respect we show to the creatures of the forest. The hunt is not just about taking from the forest," he explained, "it is also about giving back, about learning from the creatures that call it home, and about honouring the delicate balance that allows life to flourish here."

“But are we not in competition with it?” Rowan pressed, “if it kills the elk, then what do we eat?”

“We are but visitors in this place,” Taran explained, “It is no longer our home. It is theirs. We will hunt and eat but we will not disrupt the delicate balance of this place. Every creature here is interconnected, and every creature is vital to its health. It is not our place to hunt this predator. It is a noble beast that deserves both our respect and admiration. This is what I’m hoping to teach you with this trip.”

Rowan nodded, not fully understanding what his father was talking about but eager to please him.

“I wish that I could keep both of you out here, if I’m being honest,” Taran said wistfully, “your grandfather’s castle is a… strange place, for me… It feels unnatural. There is so much separation between people and the Old Ways.”

“You don’t like living with mother?” Tanlor spoke up, to which Taran chuckled warmly in response.

“It’s not that, my boy,” Taran said, “your mother is the only reason I choose to stay. Your grandfather would never allow her to return to the wood with me. Trips like this are my compromise.”

“Grandfather doesn’t like the forest?” Tanlor asked.

“He’s a Duke, and a soldier,” Taran replied, “he lives in luxury and comfort, surrounded by walls and servants. He cannot understand the appeal of the forest, nor why someone would choose to live here if they could live in the safety of the castle walls.”

“Grandfather has gone to battle though,” Rowan pointed out, “he’s not afraid, and never hides behind the castle wall.”

“That is true,” Taran agreed, “and he is a noble and just man. It’s his duty to protect the people and uphold the laws of his lands."

“Are the woods not part of his land?” Tanlor asked.

"Your grandfather’s domain ends at the Nortara sheet,” Taran explained, “the outposts are manned by soldiers sent by the Dukes but none lay claim on these lands. It is too wild.”

“Is it ours?” There was a hopeful element to Tanlor’s voice as he spoke. Rowan understood his brother's logic. Their surname was Shrydan, and this forest was known as “Shrydan Forest.” Rowan was also old enough to know that their father had merely chosen the name himself because he didn’t have a House name. It was just where he was born, not because it belonged to him.

“These lands belong to the forest,” Taran explained, “my father and mother were both born in Jok, beyond the mountains. They—and their people—were driven from their lands by the rak. And so they made this forest their home. They respected it, and the gifts that it gave them. Your grandfather is a man of honour, and he has his own way of seeing the world. It is important that we respect his beliefs and the choices he has made… even if they differ from our own."

The boys nodded in understanding. Rowan was old enough however to guess at what the main reason was for their father wanting to bring them here. His father didn’t want his sons to lose the sense of where they came from.

Their grandfather—Duke Bodh Garron—held a long legacy of leaders and runewielders. The Garron House had built the fortress of Garronforn; they had defended their lands from rivals for centuries. And Bodh spared no effort in instilling a great sense of pride in his progeny for upholding that legacy.

But Taran was not part of that legacy. He had not been born into the Garron House. He had wed Bodh’s daughter after rescuing her from outlaws. The story of their love was quite famous and many bards sang songs of it. Rowan often beamed with pride when the minstrels in his grandfather’s court played the Hunter and the Lady.

As a result of that love, however, Taran had needed to sacrifice his own legacy. His sons were raised in Garronforn under the tutelage of Bodh and his swordsmasters. They were being trained to be honourable knights so that they could serve Rubane. This trip was a means for Taran to reclaim some of that. To instil in his sons the same respect and understanding of the woods that he had. The same lessons he had been taught by his own father as a boy.

“Is that how you found mother?” Tanlor asked. “Because your family had come south from Jok?”

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“It was some time after that,” Taran replied, “my parents were long dead by the time I met your mother.”

“You were alone in the woods?” Tanlor cringed, a worried tone in his voice.

“For a time…” Taran replied, and his face took on a distant expression, “but I had made some friends, eventually. Other men that lived out here.” He lifted Tanlor to his feet as he spoke.

“Come,” Taran commanded, “we’ve dawdled here long enough.”

Taran began moving quickly through the forest again. Rowan was once again awed by his father’s fluid movements as he moved through the dense vegetation, ducking branches and finding the right footing. Rowan kept pace as best he could, glancing behind every now and then to see if Tanlor was keeping up. His brother’s face was painted with determination.

They made a few more brief stops for Taran to check tracks and for Tanlor to catch his breath. The fast pace even had Rowan panting, although he did his best to hide that from his father. Some of the trails opened into wider routes through the woods that had been worn through by larger creatures of the forest.

“This way, stay low and silent,” Taran said to them in a hushed tone after checking some tracks. Rowan noticed that there were other prints in the mud now. Something big. It was like a bear print, only significantly larger. Rowan’s mind flashed with the image of a white bear. His grandfather had the head of one stuffed and mounted in the feasting hall at Garronforn. He’d always wanted to see one in the wild.

They crept through the underbrush. Taran’s hand held up to them, indicating he wanted them to approach slowly. Rowan felt his heart pounding in his chest with excitement and anticipation. He could now hear the faint crunching of bones and the soft snarls of the beast as it tore into its prey somewhere ahead of them. The musky scent of the forest mingled with the rich smell of blood, filling his nostrils in a heady mix.

Taran gestured for them to stop, then gently pulled back the foliage in front of them. A clearing ahead was revealed. Rowan heard Tanlor gasp next to him, Rowan hastily clasped his hands on his brother’s mouth, silencing him.

Rowan’s eyes were fixed on the creature in the clearing, his pulse quickening. He knew immediately what it was. His cousins had told him it was a myth and he never truly expected to see one. A ferrax!

It was larger and more powerful than he had ever imagined, its sleek coat of white and green fur glistened in the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees. Its eyes, sharp and watchful, scanned the surrounding area as it continued to feed on the elk. A genuine ferrax.

Its body was covered in a thick coat of shimmering white fur that flowed like silk in the gentle breeze. The creature was so large that it could tower over the tallest trees of the forest if it extended itself upright. Its body was lean and muscular, rippling with power and strength.

The creature had the distinctive antlers reminiscent of a stags, but they were grander and more elaborate, curving elegantly up and outward like the branches of a great tree. The antlers shone with a bright golden sheen, sparkling in the sunlight like precious gems.

Its face was that of a wolf, with sharp, pointed teeth and a fierce snarl that could send chills down the spine of any mortal being. Its eyes were piercing and intelligent, a bright yellow colour that seemed to glow with an inner fire.

Those eyes locked on to Rowan’s.

Rowan’s heart was clasped in a vicegrip. He felt Tanlor go rigid in his hands. The creature's gaze was both intense and intimidating.

“It’s ok,” Taran whispered, “it knows we mean it no harm.”

As it moved, the creature's muscles rippled under its coat of fur, giving the impression of a powerful, coiled spring. Its movements were graceful yet swift, as if it were gliding across the forest floor on its six legs. It moved in front of its prey towards them and pulled up a few yards from where they crouched.

“Show respect,” Taran breathed, then bowed his head to the magnificent beast. Rowan did the same, releasing Tanlor so that he could also bow. The ferrax watched them silently for a time. Rowan felt overcome with a jarring blend of fear, reverence and awe. The creature before them was something magical.

The ferrax then–as quickly and fluidly as a snake—spun around and returned to its feast. Taran then took a slow step back, and nodded to his sons, indicating that they should follow him. They slowly made their way away from the clearing. Before long they were back onto the trail that they had taken.

“Why didn’t it attack us?” Rowan asked.

“The ferrax is a wise and noble creature,” Taran explained. Rowan noticed that there were tears in his father’s eyes, “it does not attack those who show it respect. Those who understand the nature and balance of the wood. It is the guardian of this place and will only attack those who mean to harm the balance.”

“How do you know all of this?” Rowan asked.

“My father and mother revered the Guardians of the Wood. Their people followed the Old Ways,” there was a sadness in his tone that Rowan had not heard before in his father.

“Do you miss them?” Rowan asked.

“They have passed on… but I am still here,” Taran told him, “I may have lost my way for many years. I have done things I am not proud of. Things that my father would be ashamed of. I have lied, cheated, stolen… and killed without remorse. I had forgotten the things my father had taught me in my search for an easier life. But as I grow old, as I watch my sons grow, and life being brought into this world, I can see the lessons he had been trying to teach me for so many years.”

***

As Rowan slowly regained consciousness, his vision was shrouded in a thick fog, as if his eyelids were veiled with a thick gossamer curtain. Gradually, the mist lifted and he found himself lying on the hard ground, surrounded by the dim flicker of a dying fire. The smell of burning wood and the pungent stench of infection filled his nostrils, causing him to cough and gasp for air.

Pain throbbed in his body, an agonising sensation that felt like knives piercing his flesh. Rowan tried to move, but every movement sent waves of torment coursing through his veins. He looked down at his chest and saw a dark, stained bandage around it. Something black and putrid was oozing from the wound and soaking his tattered shirt. His hands were bound together in roughhewn rope.

Rakmen surrounded him, their hulking forms looming in the darkness like shadows. Their blue eyes seemed to glow in the light of the campfires.

He tried to speak, but his parched throat produced only a hoarse croak. One of the rakmen, with a leering grin, thrust a canteen of fetid water into his hands. Rowan drank deeply, the foul liquid burning his throat and leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

He lay there, helpless and vulnerable. He was a prisoner of the rak at their mercy, with no hope of escape. He felt fear wash over him like a cold, dark wave. But the mental conditioning his grandfather had instilled in him as a boy took over and he crushed down the fear, shoving it deep into the recesses of his mind.

He forced himself to stay awake for as long as he could, but unconsciousness was persistently hovering about him, like an impish draega. From what Rowan could discern, he was in the woods, in a rakmen camp. Through delirium, he tried to recall how he had ended up here. He could remember the assault on Twin Garde, the moments leading up the explosion that had thrown him from the tower. But everything after that was a blur.

Rowan had no idea where he was or how long it had been since he had last been conscious. He could see other men, bound like he was, nearby. A few of them seemed to be in a similar state in terms of their injuries. They needed a healer, and they needed one quickly.

The encampment seemed to be semi-permanent. It was set up in a large clearing in the woods. There were barricades dotted around the perimeter of the camp, and wooden stakes driven into the ground. The rak slept under lean to’s and crude tents of animal hides and rough-hewn timber. It was all cobbled together haphazardly, with no real rhyme or reason to the arrangement.

Rowan spotted at least three chiefs—identifiable by their ghostwood masks. Ghostwood seemed to be the only material they used for the masks. Its ashen appearance stark against their jet-black skin. The masks were often used to denote the runewielders in the rakmen hierarchy and the Rubanians often simply referred to them as rak ‘chieftains’. They only wore the masks into battle however, and in day-to-day activities in the camp, the masks hung at their hips alongside their weapons.

Rowan’s bounds linked him to a group of a dozen other soldiers from Twin Garde. All of them had been stripped of their weapons and armour. They had been spared their cloaks however which implied that the rakmen cared to keep them alive.

“You’re awake,” a prisoner next to him said in a whisper, “wasn’t sure if you would this time.” The man was much the same build and size as Rowan with the same warrior’s cut.

“I need a healer,” Rowan croaked.

“You’re not the only one,” the prisoner muttered, Rowan figured the man was keeping his voice low to avoid any attention from their captors.

“Not like rak to take prisoners,” Rowan felt like he had stones grinding against each other in his throat as he spoke.

“Some of us are thinking they’re planning to make us slaves,” the prisoner revealed, “they had some other men here when we first got here. They were digging pits around the camp, setting up some of the defences. They were working for the rak!” the soldier sounded disgusted, “I’d rather die.”

Rowan wasn’t so sure. There was no part of him that wanted to help the rakmen, but if the choice was to dig a few holes or to be killed… at least that meant the rak might feed them. Rowan’s stomach growled.

“Not sure where they’ve gone now,” the man went on. “Once the camp was put together they were moved off elsewhere.”

“How many days?” Rowan managed to ask.

“Since we left Twin Garde?” he replied and Rowan nodded in response.

“A week.” That was surprising. Rowan couldn’t remember any of it. He touched his bandages, and felt pain lance through his chest underneath.

“Myself and Cru,” the prisoner nodded to another down the line, ”we managed to get those bandages off the bastards. We cleaned the wounds a bit and got those on you.” Rowan wasn’t surprised by this. Almost all soldiers knew basic first aid. They knew to sterilise and bandage a wound, in hopes to keep comrades alive long enough to reach a healer.

“Thank you,” Rowan said, then after a laboured breath, “… escape? or rescue?”

“I don’t think we can bank on rescue. The fuckers had taken Twin Garde, and it’ll probably be weeks before the Dukes send any men to take it back. Could be months before they start clearing out the camps out in the woods.” Rowan had figured as much himself. Commander Crann had already sent out messages to the Duke’s calling for aid.

Hopefully one of them will listen. Rowan had no hope that his own cousin, Duke Boern, would respond. But perhaps Archduke Edmund might step in if there was a concern for rakmen coming south of Nortara again.

“Escape then,” Rowan breathed. The other man gave a faint smile.

“I was hoping you’d say that. We need to resist. Keep fighting.”

“I’m Rowan.”

“Aye, I know you. You, your brother and that foreign fella showed up at Twin Garde just before the attack. Name’s Grest.” The name was familiar but Rowan couldn’t place it. His immediate concern however was for Tanlor and Daegan.

“Are they?” He weakly scanned the faces of the others in the group.

“They’re alive,” Grest said, “they were being kept in a cage back at Twin Garde, along with Yaref, Puck and Tar. Seems they thought the runewielders were the most dangerous. I don’t know what they’re planning to do with ‘em but they were alive when we were marched out.” Rowan couldn't remember marching out of Twin Garde. It seemed bizarre to him that he had been able to walk anywhere in that state, let alone to wherever this camp was.

“We walked for about three days into the woods,” Grest went on, “I was with the scouts at Twin Garde so I’ve a fair idea of where we are. About half a day, pushing hard to the south, we can reach the Ice Sheet.” But then we’ve got no way to cross it. People could cross the sheet on foot. It had been done before. But it was a massive expanse of ice in all directions, it was very easy to get turned around and often took weeks to cross without an iceraft. There was also no shelter from the winds or snow, and nothing to hunt or forage. But if the alternative was becoming a rak slave…